


because hands speak more intimately than words

by windfalling



Category: Rune Factory (Video Games), Rune Factory 4
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3677724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windfalling/pseuds/windfalling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The next time she brings him food, the refusal is sitting on his tongue, but then he looks at those wide, green eyes of hers and all his words dissipate. Frey is not an easy person to say no to, he learns.</i>
</p><p>An alternate courtship and confession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	because hands speak more intimately than words

**Author's Note:**

> i had a difficult time with this, probably because i tried write differently than i normally do, and i also tried to somewhat stick to canon courtship mechanics, and ended up cheating near the end anyway. mild **spoilers** for dylas' marriage sub-event!

 

It starts when he lets it slip that he liked fish, and a dangerous smile appears on her face. The next day, and the day after that, and the day after _that_ , Frey brings him various kinds of sashimi with such an expectant look that he can’t say no.

The next time she brings him food, the refusal is sitting on his tongue, but then he looks at those wide, green eyes of hers and all his words dissipate. Frey is not an easy person to say no to, he learns. 

Finally, after stumbling through an incoherent bundle of consonants and vowels, he says, a little desperately, “But you don’t have to do this—you don’t have to bring me something everyday.”

“I know I don’t have to, but I want to,” she says, a quiet admission. 

His cheeks warm, and his hand comes up to cover his mouth. Words seems to desert him yet again; he cannot imagine saying that as easily as she does. This means something, he thinks, but he doesn’t know what it is.

Frey takes his silence as acceptance and smiles brightly at him. “See you tomorrow, Dylas.”

“Yeah,” he manages to get out, his eyes darting anywhere but hers. He only looks at her when she leaves, staring at her back, and the way her twin ponytails bounce in time with her footsteps. 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

This goes on for another week. 

He still does not understand _why_ she insists on bringing him food and seeing him everyday, and when Dylas expresses his puzzlement to Leon, he just laughs outright.

“She likes you,” says Leon.

When Dylas’ only response is a blank stare, Leon tries again, “I think she’s courting you.” 

“That’s—that’s _ridiculous_ ,” Dylas blurts out, his face going red at the mere thought of it.

Leon just shrugs. “Hey, just telling you what I see.”

Dylas glares at him and snarls, “Well, you need glasses!” before storming away.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

He has become so accustomed to seeing her everyday that when he goes a fish-less day without her, he is surprisingly disappointed. When night falls and he still has not seen her, the worry sets in. There is concern for her wellbeing, but he is also thinking about them—her affection toward him, and his inability to respond.

Dylas is aware that he is not as social as the others are, and that he can come off as harsh at times, but it was never bothered him until now.

Just as he is getting ready to go to bed, there is a knock at his door. He opens it; Frey is there, face flushed with exertion, breathing hard as if she’d sprinted. His eyes widen in surprise.

“Were you—did I wake you?” 

“No,” he says, still a little dazed at the sight of her. Then he looks at the clock and frowns. “It’s dangerous to be out at this time.”

Frey waves away his concerns and holds out a wrapped container of food. “I’m sorry I’m so late! I had so many things to do and, well—here I am.” 

Something in his chest eases. But he thinks of how dark it is out, and of her exhausted state, and finds himself growing irrationally irritated. “You shouldn’t have come,” he says, voice harsher than he intends it to be, and she draws back. “I don’t get why you go to all this effort for nothing.”

Frey goes quiet. He wonders if this is it, if he has finally managed to push her away. But she lifts her head, then, and takes a step closer. He holds his breath. She is close enough for him to see a tiny scar along her jaw, and a web of pink lines and healing wounds.

“It isn’t for nothing,” she finally says. “It isn’t for nothing. It’s for _you_. You like it, right? If you don’t, just tell me.”

“I do like your food,” he says, the words slipping out without conscious thought. He immediately looks away, cheeks burning.

She beams at him. “Then it’s okay, right?” 

There is nothing else he can do but nod. She holds out the container to him again, and once he takes it, she looks out the window. “I should get going.”

Dylas hesitates. “Wait.”

Frey points to the sword on her back, still smiling. “I’ll be fine, Dylas. It’s only a five minute walk.”

The way she says his name echoes in his head, but there is a more pressing matter. “That isn’t it. It’s just—” he tries to find the right words and settles for, “I like going to the lake in the morning.”

She blinks, not understanding. “Okay.”

“So you don’t have to run around town,” he adds, and sees the understanding in her eyes. Part of him wonders if he’s being too presumptuous, but, well, it’s been two weeks of this, and she has not given any indication of stopping.

“See you tomorrow morning, then,” she says.

He nods and raises his hand in a wave before closing the door. 

That night, he goes to sleep thinking of the future.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Their routine goes like this:

In the early morning, he meets Frey by the lake near town, and she brings him food. Their meetings turn into small picnics, where she brings him milk porridge and fish, and he brings her the dishes he’s learned to cook from Porcoline. Together they sit on a blanket, talking idly of anything and everything. 

Dylas comes to look forward to his mornings with her.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

“Have you ever thought about cutting your hair?”

He looks alarmed, eyeing the sword on the grass beside her. “What?”

She laughs. “I think it would look good! No, really, I—where are you going—?”

He’s inching away from her, but the corner of his mouth is turned up in a small smile. Frey shifts toward him, leaning forward, and something about her expression changes. Her hands reach to him, brushing her curious fingers against the soft strands of hair near his ear. His breath catches, and he watches her trail her fingers down its length, unmoving.

“I like your hair like this, too,” she says softly.

His face flames red, and her hand falls away. 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

The thing is, he can’t imagine her loving him. 

Despite Leon’s words, their morning picnics—the idea of Frey loving _him_ just does not compute. It has to be a joke; there is no other acceptable explanation.

So when she tells him she loves him, he doesn’t believe her.

It is a knee-jerk reaction, his harsh words contrasting starkly with the racing beat of his heart. He catches a glimpse of her face, the utter surprise that quickly crumples into hurt and disappointment.

He walks away before she can say anything else.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

It rains the next day.

It’s the first storm of the season, and the first since they’ve started their tradition of breakfast by the lake. In retrospect, Dylas thinks that they probably should have set up some sort of a back-up plan.

Despite the insistent belief that her confession was merely another one of her jokes, there is a small part of him that believes in the possibility of it being real. It is this part that sets him on edge, because what if she did mean it? What if she did, against all odds, love him?

The thunder rattles the walls, followed quickly by a blinding flash of lightning. A thought comes to him, and he peers out the window—there is no way anyone would be out there. There is no way _she_ is out there, waiting for him. 

There was only one way to find out.

He doesn’t have an umbrella, but he goes out anyway. He heads to her place first, taking a shortcut through her field—very carefully avoiding stepping on any of her crops—and knocks on the door to her room. 

Vishnal walks by him, then stops. “Are you looking for the princess? If so, she went out ten minutes ago.”

“Went _out_? In this weather?” he scowls, before remembering that he is doing the exact same thing. It is pointless to search across town for her, if she even _is_ in town—she’s known for going out to explore the outer lands without telling anyone or taking anyone with her.

But then Vishnal says, “I believe she went to deliver food to someone,” and suddenly Dylas knows where she is.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

She is there, of course, at the lake.

Dylas’ first instinct is to snap at her for being so idiotic, but he reigns it in with great effort. Instead, he wordlessly glares at her and motions toward the bridge, intending for her to follow. He will not have this conversation with her in the rain.

They take shelter in one of the empty houses. Frey lights a fire with her magic. Dylas goes upstairs in search of a blanket and ends up taking the bedsheets from the two rooms, wrapping one around himself and tossing the other to Frey when he comes back down. She raises her eyebrows when she catches him glaring.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he growls at her, the tension wound to a breaking point. 

She gives him a wry look. “I was wondering when you’d start yelling. I was expecting you to call me an idiot at least three times by now.”

His face darkens, a warring mixture of concern and anger. “You knew a typhoon was coming. Why did—you just—”

“I thought you might still come to the lake, and I was right, wasn’t I?” she says defensively.

“I only came because I thought that you, being the idiot you are, would still go anyway!”

“I didn’t want you to go and see that I wasn’t there! I didn’t want you to think that, after yesterday—I didn’t—” she breaks off and takes a few deep breaths. When she speaks again, her voice breaks. “It’s okay if you don’t like me back. But you’re one of the closest friends I have, and I don’t want to lose you.”

When he doesn’t immediately respond, Frey casts her eyes to the ground, blinking rapidly. _Oh_ , he thinks, somewhat dumbfounded, and it finally sinks in.

Her gaze is cast to the ground, so she does not notice him walking toward her until he is only one step away, and she jerks her head up, startled. “Come sit by the fire,” he says.

After a moment, she follows after him. He has always struggled with words, so he takes her hand instead, despite the heat that rises to his face. She inhales sharply when he brushes his thumb over her weathered palm, her eyes searching his. 

“Before I became a Guardian,” he begins slowly, choosing each word carefully, “I never… I wasn’t close to anyone. I didn’t really understand it, until I came to this town. Yesterday, I… I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

Dylas pauses, swallowing hard. “I like our morning picnics. I like your cooking. I like spending time with you, with or without food. I… I like _you_ , and I want to be with you, if you’ll have me.”

Frey intertwines her fingers with his, cupping the side of his face with her free hand. “Of course,” she says, and his heart stutters at the way she is looking at him, overcome with warmth and happiness. 

She leans her forehead against his, their noses brushing gently against each other. “I love you,” she whispers, and he knows that she is saying it for his sake. She says it as she presses her lips to his forehead, to his cheek, to the edge of his mouth. Finally, she kisses him, and her mouth is soft and sweet, and he thinks that the wind could knock the walls down and still he would not be parted from her.

He does not return her words, but they will come in time. For now, his hands say what his mouth cannot, and she understands. 

 

 


End file.
